


Haunted

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and Sherlock is told he's going to be paid a visit by three ghosts so he can either shape up and live a life with meaning or end up roaming the earth for the rest of eternity as punishment for the various misdeeds he has done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reichenbach_bagel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reichenbach_bagel/gifts).



> So among the many requested fics I have written I got one prompt from **Reichenbach_bagel** that I have been unable to write so far, so I offered to do a bonus fic to make up for it. What was requested was a Sherlolly fic where Sherlock is visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future, and I swear, I got so many ideas. I'm planning on keeping it fairly short, part wise, so hopefully it will be finished quickly!

Sherlock was in a foul mood. He’d been in an incredibly foul mood for weeks now, if he wanted to be quite honest. Perhaps even months, but as the holidays crept ever closer it just seemed to get worse and worse. Of all the holidays he despised he despised Christmas the most. There was something about the good cheer and the urgings to be with friends and family that grated on him. He’d made a few attempts in years past to be a part of festivities; there had been the party at the flat that Irene’s “death” had cut short, and then, obviously, the fiasco that had been the year prior. This year he vowed to lock himself up at Baker Street and sit in doom and gloom and silence until the day had passed by completely. Probably until after Boxing Day had passed as well, for extra measure. 

He heard John clear his throat by the door. “Sure we can’t interest you in joining us tomorrow night?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s your first Christmas as an entire family,” he said, not looking up from the microscope where he was studying a slide. “Far be it from me to intrude on that.”

“But you’re family too, you know,” John said.

“John, I have no interest in celebrating the holiday,” he said. “You and Mary and Annabelle enjoy your first Christmas together and I’ll collect you the next morning if we still need to do anything for this case.”

John was quiet for a moment and then he gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh. “All right. Don’t stay here too long, all right? At least eat something.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, lifting a hand up and waving him off. He heard John leave a moment later and went back to studying the slides. A few minutes after that the door opened again and Sherlock sighed. “John, I promise, I will not spend all evening here. I have a bed, I will sleep there as opposed to a cot.”

He heard a soft laugh and looked up, seeing Molly there with a covered plate in her hands. “I ran into John and he said you were busy. Good thing I had this,” she said, lifting up the plate. “They catered dinner for the employees tonight. They’ll do it again tomorrow as well, but I have the day off. I figured you would be working up here so I brought you my plate.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said quietly.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she said, coming closer. “I do worry about you sometimes. I know you don’t always take care of yourself.” When she was close but not too close she set the plate on his work station. “Well, have a Happy Christmas tomorrow.”

“I’m planning on ignoring the holiday,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” she said, her smile becoming a bit sadder. “After everything this year….” She trailed off and then shook her head. “Well, enjoy the food and I’ll see you on Sunday, I suppose, if we both don’t end up coming in tomorrow.”

He nodded and then watched her go. It had been a rough year for all of them, with his hunt for Moriarty and the tricks the man pulled. There had been a good enough ending, he supposed, but Molly had put her trust in the wrong person and it had cost her, and it pained him to see her withdrawn and sad so often. He had so gotten used to seeing one side of her, a vibrant and happier side of her, that this meek and withdrawn one was rather depressing.

He got up after a moment and then went to the plate. It smelled good, whatever was on it. He went to take the covering off but knocked the cutlery off onto the floor. He could rinse it off no problem, so he bent down to pick it up. The door opened again and he straightened in a hurry, smacking his head on the underside of the counter. “Damn!” he muttered loudly, rubbing his head. He looked at the door but saw no one had come in, though it was ajar. He stalked over to it and angrily pulled it open, looking out into the hallway. Spying no one, he shut it with more force than needed and then made his way back to his microscope, rubbing where he had hit his head.

His mobile began to buzz, alerting him to a text message. He picked it up and did not recognize the number. _You will be visited tonight,_ it read.

He rolled his eyes. If this was one of Moriarty’s minions playing a prank he had better things to do with his time. _I’ll have this traced in the morning. Anyone foolish enough to visit tonight will be shot. SH_ he texted back before setting the phone down.

A moment later there was another buzz. _Three ghosts. Past, Present, Future._ the new text read.

This time Sherlock let out a snort. Whoever was sending these believed the tripe Dickens had shoveled out. Unbelievable. _I’ll believe it when I see further proof. SH_ he sent back before setting his phone down again. He went back to the microscope and looked at the slide until he heard a faint sound in the hallway. It grew louder by the second, and it was grating on his nerves. “Some of us are trying to work!” he said loudly through clenched teeth.

“I don’t care if you’re trying to work, Sherlock,” a very distinctive voice said from the hallway, about two doors down, and Sherlock felt his blood run cold. The sound got clearer and he realized it was chains dragging on the ground. He got up and slowly made his way to the door of the lab before looking out in the hallway. There, he saw James Moriarty, hands and feet clasped in chains, with more chains weighing him down, glaring at his door. The bullet hole in his forehead and blood running from the sides of it still looked just as it had when Sherlock had put it there at the end of their grand game. “You thought you’d seen the last of me, hadn’t you?”

“A bullet to the brain is supposed to be permanent, though as this was the second…” Sherlock said urbanely, trying not to show that it had just registered he could see _through_ Moriarty quite well.

“Well, apparently there were other plans for me. Too wicked for Heaven, too devious for Hell, forced to suffer eternal damnation walking the earth,” Moriarty drawled, coming closer. “You may end up with the same fate if you’re not careful.”

“I don’t believe in Heaven, Hell or an afterlife so it makes no difference to me,” Sherlock said, glaring at Moriarty.

“You are a bigger idiot than I thought, doubting what you can see clearly in front of you,” Moriarty said with a shake of the head. He got in front of him them, and stuck a hand through his chest. Sherlock felt a sensation as though he was being frozen from the inside out go through him, radiating from Moriarty’s hand, until he pulled it aside. “Face it, Sherlock. We’re both bad men, in our own ways. Neither of us deserves a good ending.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sherlock said.

“Unfortunately, you get a chance to tip the scales in your favor,” Moriarty said. “You’ll have three spirits visiting you tonight. Apparently Dickens had it right after all. They’ll show you how to start to make things right. Because just remember: if you don’t, you’re stuck with me for all eternity.” Moriarty gave him a wicked grin, and then proceeded to walk right through Sherlock, who stood stock still until he passed. “First spirit will be with you at midnight. I strongly suggest you be more open.”

Sherlock turned to say something but Moriarty was gone. He shook his head. “Bastard,” he said under his breath. He made his way back to the lab and sat at the microscope, concentrating on the sample for a few more minutes. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get what were obviously hallucinations out of his head. He sighed and put the slides away and gathered his things, including the meal from Molly. He could come in and do more on Sunday.

He made his way out of the hospital and got a cab, having it take him to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was off visiting her son for the holidays so he had the whole place to himself. He took the food to the kitchen table and uncovered it. It was pot roast and vegetable, two dinner rolls and a slice of mince pie. He smiled slightly and began to eat. He was glad Molly had done this; if she hadn’t, he probably would have eaten much less of something not as healthy. When he was done he tossed the disposable plate and cutlery and then went to the sofa and turned on the telly to see what mind-numbing stuff was on. Without realizing it, however, his eyes began to flutter closed, and before he knew it, he was sound asleep, hoping that when he woke up it would be well into Christmas Day.


	2. Chapter 2

The shrill alarm on his mobile began to buzz, abruptly drawing him out of his sleep, restless as it had been. He glared in the general direction of where he had set the phone, on the table in front of the sofa and then picked it up, trying to turn the blasted alarm off. Once the sitting room was blissfully silent again, Sherlock saw it was midnight. He hadn’t even gotten a full three hours of sleep, he thought to himself before he put his head back on the pillow on the sofa.

“Rise and shine, Sherlock,” he heard a familiar voice say from in front of the telly.

“Go away, Graham,” he said, grabbing the second pillow on the sofa and clamping it over his head.

“Are you always such a grouch when you wake up?” Lestrade asked in a jovial mood.

Sherlock lifted the pillow up and then sat up slightly, glaring at Lestrade. The man was there in his usual coat and slightly rumpled suit, looking like he’d just come off a day’s work at a crime scene or interviewing suspects. “How did you get in here?” he asked.

Lestrade waved his fingers slightly. “I’m a ghost.”

“No, you’re Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a somewhat competent member of the police organization who is, I suppose, a friend,” he said.

“Well, point of fact is right now I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,” he said with a grin. “And I’ve got some things to show you.”

“Go away,” Sherlock said, picking up his pillow and tossing it at Lestrade. It went right through him and Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, as Lestrade laughed. “That’s impossible.”

“Ghost of Christmas Past,” Lestrade repeated. He held out his hand. “Come on. Got a lot to show you and not a lot of time to do it.”

Sherlock eyes it warily. “I just threw a pillow through you.”

“Because I _let_ it go through me. I guarantee my hand is solid.” Sherlock stared at it skeptically and then grabbed at it. It felt cold, though not as cold as Moriarty had felt, but as soon as Lestrade had a grip he hauled Sherlock up off the sofa and then through the bloody wall outside. Sherlock stared down in horror as he realized he was floating in the air. “Relax, Sherlock. I’m not going to drop you.”

“You’d best not,” Sherlock said, tightening his grip on Lestrade’s hand. He didn’t mind traveling at fast speeds or flying, but as they traveled quickly through the air he found himself not wanting to watch and so he shut his eyes. He only opened them when he no longer felt cool air brushing against his cheeks. He saw he was outside his parent’s home, but it did not look as it had when he had gone back two months ago. It looked as it had when he was a child. “How…?” he asked.

“A very special Christmas Eve,” Lestrade said, pointing to the window.

Sherlock let himself into his parent’s yard and then went to the window. When he put his nose to the glass he realized he was able to step into the room. He remembered this evening well. Lestrade joined him a moment later. “Mycroft told me Father Christmas wasn’t real,” he said quietly. “So I decided to stay up all night and wait for him. But Mum had just come down and said Mycroft was right, but that she and Dad had a surprise for me.” The door opened and Sherlock and Lestrade turned, seeing a man carrying in a little ball of red fluff in his arms. Sherlock got a fond smile on his face. “Redbeard.”

“Your only friend for a long time,” Lestrade said, watching Sherlock’s father hand the wriggling puppy to a four-year-old Sherlock and the puppy excitedly licking Sherlock’s face as he laughed. “This was your best Christmas.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Even though it should have been the worst.”

“Let me show you another one,” Lestrade said, reaching for Sherlock’s arm. He pulled him back outside and then back up into the sky and Sherlock shut his eyes again. The travel this time was briefer, and when they were done he saw he was outside of Scotland Yard headquarters, in the area where Lestrade’s office was. “This should be familiar.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured. The muted sounds of celebration could be heard from down the hall, and a few cheeky couples had come this way to get some time to themselves. But Sherlock spotted a younger him, not that long out of rehab, huddled in Lestrade’s office, trying to ignore the festivities. He remembered that day. Lestrade had encouraged him to make an appearance and he knew it was a good idea but there was temptation and it was all still rather fresh.

He watched from the hall as Lestrade got to the doorway, leaning in it. He looked so young, with the all dark hair Sherlock dimly remembered from the start of their association, no flecks of grey in it. “Party’s out that way, Holmes.”

“I’m not in a sociable mood,” the younger version of him replied.

Lestrade nodded. “Too much going on out there?” Lestrade asked, coming in, plate in front of him.

“You could say that,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade set the plate down on his desk, glancing at the spot where the younger version of Sherlock was huddled on the floor. “I brought you a plate of food to take home, since you’re skin and bones. Go on, get out of here. I’ll make your apologies for you.” With that, Lestrade turned around, pausing at the doorway. From this angle, Sherlock could see he had a soft smile on his face. Even back then, he’d genuinely cared about his wellbeing. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“You did care,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I wasn’t the only one,” the ghost version of Lestrade said as he grabbed Sherlock’s hand again. This time they went through the walls again, travelling some more, and he found himself in the older version of St. Bart’s morgue, before they’d updated it. He knew, then, this was the first Christmas after he’d met Molly. “Go look.”

Sherlock made his way into the office. He saw Molly sitting there, all dressed up for a party, not unlike how she had been when she had gone to the one at his home, poring over some paperwork. She kept glancing at the clock and after a moment so did her. He saw it was nearly seven forty-five. After a moment she picked up her mobile and sent a text that read _He’s still not here. I’m afraid I don’t know when I’ll get there. I’m so sorry._

After a moment there was a simple one word reply: _Figures._

She sighed and stowed away her mobile as the morgue doors banged open. She quickly fixed the way she looked and turned to the office door. “I need the report, Dr. Hooper,” he heard himself call out.

“I’m in the office,” she called back. When the younger him pushed open the door he glanced over at her and then held out his hand. “I can go over the results, if you’d like. Or show you the body if you need to.”

He waved her off. “Your reports are adequate, I suppose. I can get what I need from them. Carry on with your evening,” he said, settling into the other chair there.

She nodded, then bit her lip slightly. “I, uh…there’s biscuits, if you’d like some. The nurses upstairs made them.”

“I concentrate better in silence,” he said pointedly. “Be off. Go celebrate this wretched holiday.”

“All right,” she said quietly. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Younger him ignored her and older him shook his head. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a world class idiot. I mean, _I’m_ a world class idiot.” Then he paused. “Or rather, I was.”

“You still are,” Lestrade piped up, and Sherlock glared. “Though not as much.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Any other past holidays you want to show me?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Because I already realize I haven’t had many good ones.”

“Well, that depends. Do you want to see what happened at the Christmas party?” Lestrade asked, tilting his head.

Sherlock thought about it, then shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “You already showed me hurting her once. I don’t need to see myself hurting her again.”

“All right then. Home it is, to wait for the Ghost of Christmas Present,” he said. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and in a blink they were back in the sitting room at Baker Street. “She’ll be here shortly.”

“She?” he asked.

Lestrade grinned. “Yes, she.” He winked. “Hope you had an eye-opening time with me.” And then with that, Lestrade was gone.

Sherlock sat back on the sofa, putting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together before setting his chin on them. He’d had some good holidays, and some bad ones, and many more mediocre than either good or bad. He didn’t need to relive each and every one of them to see that. The damned ghost could have taken him to each and every one, though, and he doubted any of them would have stuck out as much as the one with Molly except _possibly_ the party. He had been quite callous and cruel to her for a number of years and he was still amazed she tolerated him, let alone _liked_ him. It was an honest miracle as far as he was concerned. He considered picking up the phone and calling her, telling her that he was thankful for her and her friendship, but then he remembered she was probably asleep and he still had visits from ghosts. And with that thought in mind, he settled in to wait and see which female from his life would be representing the Ghost of Christmas Present.


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn’t sure how long he had been waiting when he heard his stereo system blare to life. The radio dialed moved back and forth between stations, and then it landed on a treacley Christmas pop hit he’d heard playing in the background the last time he went over to John and Mary’s before he actively began avoiding people this holiday season. A song he distinctly remembered Mary singing along to at the top of her voice.

Which, he realized, he was hearing again right now.

He opened his eyes again, having shut them to concentrate on something, _anything_ other than the past, and he saw Mary standing there dressed up in a green dress with red trim and an elf hat on her head. She had a wide smile on her face and he groaned. “An elf, Mary? Really?” he asked.

“Just because _some_ people loathe this holiday with a fiery passion doesn’t mean others don’t enjoy it,” Mary said. “And besides, I’m not Mary. _I’m_ the Ghost of Christmas Present. You know, the fun one. Because the people you know are having fun. Unlike _you_.” She emphasized that by poking him in the chest.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘Bah, humbug?’” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“If you didn’t say it before the arsehole with the chains then you missed your chance,” she said. “Unless you _really_ want to say it. This isn’t actually Dickens, you know. We can bend the rules a little. It’s what you and the real Mary are good at.”

Despite things, Sherlock grinned slightly. “I suppose. But there’s no need.”

“Good. It’s not all that festive, and I think I want to be festive right now. So! Watson home first, shall we?” she asked, offering him her hand.

He eyed it. “Are we going to fly through the streets of London?” he asked.

“Have you ever seen the movie ‘Scrooged’?” she asked. He shook his head and she grinned. “Oh, good. No, we’re not going to fly. Just stand up.” He took her hand and then she helped him stand up. “All right, close your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. “They’re closed,” he said.

“One…two…three!” He felt a sharp smack to the back of his head and his eyes flew open, and it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t at Baker Street anymore, but was instead in the foyer at John and Mary’s home. Then he glared at Mary, who gave him a wicked smirk. “Carol Kane…got to love her.” She pulled him over to the sitting room. “Come on!”

He allowed himself to be dragged while grumbling slightly until he came in and saw the room. It was all decked out for Christmas, with a huge tree covered in lights and decorations, a small ornamental village on a table in the corner, and stocking hung on the fireplace. He even saw there was a stocking there for him. He reached over and fingered it lightly. After a moment he heard voices.

“So he isn’t going to come?” he heard the real Mary ask as she, John and Lestrade came into the room. Each of the men had a mug of something warm with them, John carrying two, while Mary carried Annabelle in her arms. She set Annabelle down by the tree and gave her a toy to play with.

“I doubt it,” John said, handing her one of the mugs before sitting on the sofa. Mary sat next to him while Lestrade gravitated over towards the chair. “Sherlock…he never seemed fond of holidays, but _especially_ not Christmas. To have that party years ago I nearly had to twist his arm. I ended up having to agree to allow him to have a severed foot in the refrigerator.”

“And look at how well it turned out,” Lestrade said with a smirk, huffing slightly before taking a sip of his mug. “Molly got humiliated in front of everyone, that dominatrix he’d been tangled up with supposedly turned up dead and we all got put on high alert for a danger night. And didn’t the woman you brought to the party dump you that night, John?”

John nodded. “Oh yeah. It wasn’t my best Christmas. Last year wasn’t the best, either. Maybe, at least in Sherlock’s case, he’s got the right idea about ignoring the holiday. It usually doesn’t go well for him. Maybe if he pretends it doesn’t exist this year nothing will go wrong.”

“I just feel bad, though,” Mary said. “I mean, we’ll be doing all sorts of stuff in the morning with presents, and I know you’ll be here with your daughter for dinner in the evening, Greg, and he’ll be at Baker Street all alone.”

“Alone protects him,” John said with a shrug. “He’s said that before. Maybe it really is true.”

“Still, it’s a hell of a way to live,” Lestrade said. Then he turned to Mary. “Any luck getting Molly to come?”

“Possibly. She said she’d consider it, which I gather is better than what John got from Sherlock,” Mary said. Then she brightened. “You know, if they won’t come _here_ then we should go _there_. Take Christmas to them. I mean, make them each a plate and gather up all of their gifts and just go spend some time with them. Even if it’s just dropping it all off and not actually celebrating in Sherlock’s case. Just to let them know we care, you know?”

“I think that’s a great idea, love,” John said with a grin.

“I think Cassie and I would love to join you while you do that,” Greg said as he nodded. “That’d be a nice way to spend the time after dinner.”

“Then it’s settled,” Mary said with a decisive nod. “All right, then. As this is my first Christmas Eve with a family of my own, I saw we start a tradition where we exchange a gift tonight. I have something for you, dear, and I think we can give Annabelle the stuffed rabbit so she has a new toy to cuddle with. And we even have a gift for you, Greg.”

“I definitely approve of this tradition,” Lestrade said with a laugh as John got up and went to the tree. “Considering Cassie and I have the same one.”

“Well, we won’t keep you much longer,” Mary said.

“No worries,” he said. “She’s with her mum tonight. I’m picking her up at ten for my gift giving and dinner here, unless she calls me earlier. She’s been unhappy with her mum’s new boyfriend. Says he’s a prat.”

“That’s never good,” John said with a frown.

“Well, if that’s the case and my ex wants to be mean to Cass about things then we’ll just make her Christmas even better,” Lestrade said. “I’m not going to let her grow up hating the holidays.”

“That’s the spirit to have,” Mary said with a smile. She lifted up her mug. “To Christmas!”

“To Christmas!” Lestrade and John chorused.

Sherlock turned away and looked at ghost Mary. “I’m surprised they worry so much,” he said.

“They’re your friends,” she said. “Of course they worry.” 

“I take it the other people I know are not having as enjoyable a Christmas Eve,” he said quietly.

“Irene is enjoying a gala on the French Riviera,” ghost Mary said with a smile. “And Janine is informing her fiancée that she’s pregnant, which is news he will be taking quite well. And even though you and Mycroft have declined the chance to go home for the holidays, your parents are having a rather nice evening as well.” 

“So not everyone is miserable,” he replied.

“No. And not even everyone you think is miserable is miserable,” she said. She stepped forward and tapped his cheek once, then again, and then a bit harder the third time, and he found himself in his brother’s study. Sherlock could hear classical music playing in the background, and he saw Mycroft sitting in his favorite chair in front of a fire in his fireplace, reading a book. Anthea sat in the chair opposite of him. On the table next to each chair was a finely wrapped gift and a snifter of brandy.

Mycroft slowly shut his book after marking his page and glanced at his watch. After a moment, Anthea set her phone down on the table and picked up the gift. She carefully undid the ribbon and then peeled away the paper to see a long, slim jewelry case. She lifted her head up to look at Mycroft with a raised eyebrow before opening it and seeing an amethyst and diamond bracelet inside. Her eyes went wide and a small smile curled at the edge of her lips.

Mycroft in turn picked up his gift and carefully unwrapped it, trying very hard not to rip the paper or uncurl the ribbon. When he got the paper off it was clear it was a very old book, and Sherlock could see when Mycroft opened it and flipped through a few pages that it was handwritten in Japanese with gorgeous illustration. He nodded towards Anthea and closed the book, picking up his snifter of brandy and raising it towards his assistant. She picked up her own glass and did the same before they each took a sip.

“That looked oddly like an invitation,” he said, narrowing his eyes and staring at his brother.

“Well, let’s just say your brother will not wake up alone Christmas morning,” Mary said impishly.

Sherlock shuddered. “I didn’t need to know that,” he said. Then he paused. “And Molly?”

Mary’s smile faltered. “Are you sure?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am,” he said quietly.

She balled her fingers into a fist, pulled back, and then punched Sherlock in the arm, but they were at Molly’s home an instant later. There were no decorations up that he could see, and that struck him as odd. At the party, Molly’d had ribbon in her hair, and she wore Christmas themed jumpers year after year and this…this just seemed _wrong_. He couldn’t even see a tree anywhere in the flat.

He and Mary made their way to her sitting room, and he watched Molly in her kitchen, heating up a ready-made meal in her microwave. She hadn’t eaten any of the catered meal, he realized. She’d given it to him. He looked around and saw a few small bags of presents with Molly’s name on them, stacked on her dining room table. She hadn’t opened any of them yet, and as he watched her bring her meal to the table he saw her eye them but not touch them. She ate her meal quietly and then moved to the sofa, laying down and turning on the telly.

“This isn’t right,” he said. “Christmas is her favorite holiday. She should be celebrating. She should…be with John and other you and Lestrade, or be with co-workers, or doing _something_.”

“Why?” Mary said. “You weren’t. Why should she have to do something you weren’t doing?”

“But I _hate_ Christmas,” he said. “She loves it. She should be happier.”

“I totally agree,” Mary said. “She should be.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“My time is nearing an end, so I need to take you back to wait for the Ghost of Christmas Future,” she said. She reached over to Sherlock and tugged on his ear. He glared but said nothing as they were transported back to Baker Street. Mary gave him a slightly pitying look. “I had hoped to leave things on a better note because I doubt you’ll have a nice view of the future. I mean, you aren’t Ebenezer Scrooge, but your luck and the luck of your friends isn’t exactly the greatest. But I _will_ remind you that no matter what the stick in the mud implies, you can change things. You can try and make things better.” She gently pushed Sherlock to sit down on the sofa and then leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Just try to remember that, love.” And then she was gone.

Sherlock sat, slightly bewildered and worried. He wasn’t sure what the third and last visit would bring, but it didn’t bode well. But then a fire lit in him. He’d be damned if his friends would have miserable futures based on his actions. He may be an arse to the world at large, but to his friends he tried very hard not to be. So if the Ghost of Christmas Future tried to foist a doom and gloom future on it? Sherlock was very prepared to prove just how wrong that outcome was going to be.


	4. Chapter 4

He wasn’t allowing himself to be taken by surprise this time. He waited vigilantly, and when the telly switched over to the news and they began talking about the British government he knew _exactly_ who was going to represent the Ghost of Christmas Future. “I know you aren’t really Mycroft,” he said out loud before the apparition appeared.

“That does make this easier,” he heard coming from his left. He turned and saw his brother standing there, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “It helps that we won’t actually be going anywhere.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas _Future_ ,” Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes. “The places don’t exist yet. But they will, of course.”

“Mary said they don’t have to,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft paused in his actions. “I see we’re going off script,” he murmured.

“Of course we’re going off script,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms and leaning back onto the back of the sofa. “I’m not one for depressing endings. I don’t like having my fate decided for me. If I muck up my own life that’s one thing, but I refuse to do that to my friends. They deserve better.”

Mycroft gave him a discerning glance. “Then let’s approach this logically, shall we? See what their future _might_ hold and figure out what you personally can do to change it.” He gestured to the television and the scene showed John and Mary, sitting at their dining room table. Neither looked particularly happy to be in the others presence. There was a glass of some drink in front of Mary. Annabelle was there, around the age of eight, and she looked nervous. “What do you see?”

“Tension,” Sherlock said, watching as Mary picked up the glass and took a sip. “Quite a bit of it. It looks like they’re on the edge of a row.”

“Yes. About you. John went off on the dangerous cases with you again, in an effort to connect with you, to not have you be alone. He put you and his need for adrenaline over his family. Mary started to worry, started to drink. It’s not been pleasant in the Watson household for quite some time.” He paused. “I’ll spare you the particulars. What are you going to do about it?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Not push them away,” he said. “And not allow John to get so wrapped up in our old life that he ignores them. He loves Mary and Annabelle.”

“He loves you, too, though,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Yes, but in a different way,” Sherlock countered. “He should love them more. They should have more of his heart. They are the people who should be most important to him.”

“That’s good,” Mycroft said. “Remember that for the future, and this may not come to pass.” He gestured to the television again. It was his actual brother, and his parents. There was a half-hearted attempt to decorate for the holidays, but nothing like what his mother usually went through. The three of them were silent as they made their way through the ready-made meals in front of them. “You went off again, put yourself at risk. You pushed your family away as much as your friends, to the point your brother washed his hands of you. Your parents never quite forgave him for that, especially…after.”

“After what?” Sherlock asked.

“After you said to hell with it and pushed everyone away and left.”

Sherlock nodded. “I see.”

“You want to see Molly,” Mycroft said. “Even now, even through all of this, seeing your family and your friends, she’s the one you think of the most. She’s the one you’ve thought of the most for some time.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft gestured to the TV again. Molly was walking along some cliffs, and Sherlock stood up quickly. “She’s not going to jump,” Mycroft assured him, and he sat back down. “When you left, so did she. She had isolated herself from everyone not long after you left, and stopped finding joy in her work. She went to the coast and moved into a little cottage with her cat and stayed there, forgetting everything about her former life. Everything except you. And her heart broke a little more each day. She never bothered to try and find love again, saying she was quite content to live a life alone. She said alone was better.” He turned to face Sherlock. “Alone protected her.”

“But it isn’t. It doesn’t,” he said. “That’s what the point of all this was tonight, wasn’t it? To show me it _isn’t_ better to be alone. It’s better to let people in, to keep friends close, to allow people to love and care for you. To actually live a life instead of isolate yourself.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft conceded.

“Then let me do that,” Sherlock said, standing up and moving towards Mycroft. “Let me actually live a life and not just exist. I don’t want to end up like Moriarty. I don’t want to live an empty life, or end up with too many sins to have to repent. I want to make whatever is left of my life worthwhile. And I want to actually be happy.”

Mycroft considered it. “I think you are actually sincere.”

“Of _course_ I’m sincere,” Sherlock said. “I do actually have a heart, even if it’s small.”

“I don’t know,” he heard from behind him, and so he whirled around. There stood Molly, smiling at him. “I’ve always thought your heart could be quite large, given the chance.”

He glanced back at where Mycroft had been but that particular ghost was gone. “You were probably the only one,” he said, moving towards her. “You’ve thought the best in me for a very long time.”

She nodded. “I have.”

“Even when I’ve treated you horribly. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Yes,” she said. “Even then.”

“Why?” he asked as he got closer.

“Because I liked you,” she said. “And I thought there was a good man, underneath it all.”

He finally moved in front of her. “And now?”

“I still do,” she said. She framed his face with her hands and he shut his eyes. “Sherlock.” Suddenly he felt an ache in his head and it felt as though he was on his back. “Sherlock?” he heard her ask. He felt hands move from his face. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and he saw Molly kneeling next to him as he was sprawled out on the floor of the lab. “What…?” he asked.

“I had forgotten to tell you I had a gift for you so I came back in and you were standing up and you hit your head on the underside of the worktop and then you were out cold,” she said, helping him sit up.

“So no one came to visit? It’s not after midnight?” he asked, bringing his hand to the sore spot on his head.

She shook her head. “I literally turned around and came right back maybe three minutes later.” She moved slightly and began looking at his head. “You’ve been unconscious for a little while. I was about to go get some smelling salts. I think you might have a concussion.”

“Then you should come to Baker Street with me,” he said, beginning to stand up.

“Oh,” she said. “Um…I could do that. But we should get you checked out first.”

“Fine. But only if you agree to have dinner with me tonight once they confirm I do, in fact, have a concussion. And then stay the night.” He looked over at her and then tipped her chin up. “Neither of us should be alone Christmas Eve. Or Christmas Day, for that matter.”

“I thought we were both ignoring the holiday,” she said, studying him.

“I changed my mind,” he replied. “We can get me checked out, then stop by your flat and get you a change of clothes and any gifts you might have, and then take it all to Baker Street and you can spend tonight and tomorrow with me. And maybe we’ll even take the Watsons up on their invitations to dinner, if we feel like being sociable.”

She started to smile. “Do you have a tree?”

“Mrs. Hudson made sure of it,” he said with a nod, which he regretted a moment later.

“Good,” she said. “I didn’t get one this year.”

He resisted the urge to say “I know,” instead leaning on her. She wrapped an arm around his waist. “I’m sorry I don’t have a gift for you,” he said.

“I can think of something you might be able to give me, if you’re up for playing the violin tomorrow morning,” she said as she helped guide him out of his lab.

“I’ll make sure I’m up to it,” he said, beginning to relax. The visits from the ghosts may have all been in his head, but at least in reality he could take the opportunity to do what his mind and his heart had been guiding him to do. He didn’t have to be alone, he didn’t have to push people away. He could be happy and that was a very good thing.


End file.
